You've Got Blood On Your Hands
by SevLovesLily
Summary: Based directly off 8x17 'Goodbye Stranger': Cas and Dean go their separate ways and both wish so much that they didn't have to. Dean /needs/ Cas, but the angel's got too much blood on his hands to feel he deserves Dean and too much responsibility on his shoulders to stay. T for Violence and Language.


**One of my favorite things to do is to take the saddest, most heart-breaking scenes of your favorite shows, and write one-shots about them. I got the idea for this because I noticed that the song _Unfinished Business_ literally described the new episode to a T, so I used a lyric of the song for the title. And you should totally listen to the song (I suggest the Mumford and Sons cover because Mumford and Sons generally fits EVERYTHING Supernatural anyways), too.**

**I've never written Destiel before, so I was excited to write this. Especially since I got to just include a whole bunch of my headcanon for everything dubious that's going on right now. Just... don't expect any happy stuff, okay. This is pure angst.**

* * *

Everything is pain for Dean. But not in the way you would think—what with the bleeding, the bruising, the repeated pressure that's _causing_ the bruising, and the almost abnormally quick swelling. No, he's numb to all of that. Or he might as well be—he might as well not be feeling a damn thing in comparison to how much it hurts that _Cas_ is the one doing this to him.

Except it's not really Cas, no. No. It's not him. Cas would not hurt him. Cas… he _cares_ for him too much, and Dean knows it. Besides—what he sees in the angel's eyes right now, it's not him. It's not him because there's _nothing_ in those eyes. There's hardly even enough of a shine for him to see his own bloody face in the reflection.

_God, what… what _happened_ to you, Cas?_

The punches keep coming, and Dean is numb to that, but the pain of Cas—Cas's _vessel_—doing this is keeping him from moving properly. He can't grab on to anything long enough to pull himself up, and he's not sure he even wants to. Somehow, this feels better from down here, looking up.

"C…Cas—Cas, this is _not_ you—this is NOT you, okay? Cas? You're somewhere in there, this is _not_ you…." And now he's too weak to speak again. Cas isn't relenting. Dean hates that he can't get through to him, and his left eye starts swelling to the point that he can barely see out of it. He desperately grabs for the angel's hands, and only partially to keep him from beating him with them (although that would have been enough anyway, since Castiel was truly the size of a Chrysler building and he packed that much of a punch in his vessel).

The small bit that he's briefly able to hold onto his wet with his own blood. It's practically splattered all over Cas's hands, but he doesn't care.

The angel's hand slips through his fingers and winds back for another punch. At this point, he's just laying there and physically accepting it. Not mentally, though.

"Cas… I need you," he breaks out of his lungs with a sudden surge in his chest to fire him up away from weakness, and he thinks he might be crying slightly. Only slightly. "_I need you_," he repeats. It's all he can let himself say, for now.

He's punched again. And seemingly without having heard Dean at all, Cas raises the angel blade in his hand and looks fully intent on using it.

"Cas… please, no—" he breathes out in the moments before something in Cas seems to break—something very subtle, and he loosens his grip to drop the blade altogether. He steps back with a look of horror on his face—and Dean's momentarily overjoyed because he thinks he got whatever it was out of Cas. But then the angel steps forward looking full of purpose, and he raises his hand to clasp the side of Dean's bloody and battered face. His grip is such that Dean thinks he might be about to snap his neck.

Everything goes away—all the physical pain that seemed to just be numb until it was gone, and all the blood and the swelling. He can see and breathe properly again, and Cas is very clear above him. He just wishes that Cas's hand would stay on his face just a moment long enough for him to cover it with his own hand and keep it pressed to his cheek.

He's never healed him like this, before—it's always two fingers to the forehead. Dean doesn't try to be sentimental and notice things like that, but it would take an idiot not to see the significance.

He watches Cas go through a brief breakdown, and then the angel explains that he's been controlled. It makes sense now, why he was doing that. Even after being beaten up so badly by him, his trust in him doesn't go away. But why can't he just explain things better? Why can't he just stick around long enough to tell him _what the hell_?

So it's the angel tablet, then. Dean guesses it's probably something on how to seal angels in heaven. But of course he wouldn't want to do that—he needs Cas down here, with him. Sure, other angels are dicks, but Cas makes their existence worth it. He's too relieved at having Cas _truly_ back after him supposedly being controlled all this time to care about it as fully as he should. He wants to pull the man into a tight hug, as he's missed the time when he could actually be sincere. He wants to kiss him and make it full of promises because a good, solid promise is really what he needs after all of this.

"I need to protect it from them," Cas tells him. "And… from you."

_From me? What? Does he not trust me?_

"Cas, what—?"

He's gone. Again. Fucking _again_.

Dean's so used to this that he's not nearly as confused as he would have been. But he's still so frustrated that he wants to tear the room apart and scream for him.

* * *

Taking a breath that feels as though it encompasses his entire existence, Castiel seals the tablet in the backpack he bought before getting on the train. He doesn't even know where it's going—he bought the first ticket he saw and just got on. He just needs to get far away from Dean.

It's not just that he doesn't want Heaven closed. In fact, he doesn't even believe Dean would do that. Castiel needs to be away from Dean in case Naomi gains control again.

He told Dean that he didn't know what broke the connection between them, but he knows for sure now, and he thinks that he knew last night, too. That kind of connection (whatever exactly it even _was_) could only have been broken by a stronger connection. The profound bond he and Dean share. He simply couldn't hurt Dean, not even after killing a thousand copies of him.

And yet, Naomi was able to force him to practically punch the life out of him. Though it was more like forcing his vessel while he wasn't even consciously in it.

Even though none of that was truly his doing, Castiel still sees Dean's blood on his hands. No matter how well you wash it off, blood is on your hands forever—if you're an angel. Every act that should not have been committed stays with you. Castiel feels the guilt weigh upon him as though he's carrying the earth on his shoulders.

He clutches the bag to his chest and watches the outside pass him by through the window. He feels slightly better with each passing second, as he's getting farther and farther away from Dean. After all that he's done—he became God, he abused it, he swallowed the Leviathan, he was brought back, he was sent to Purgatory, he got pulled out—he feels completely unworthy of everything that he has. He never _deserved_ to be pulled out of Purgatory. He doesn't deserve to be alive. He doesn't deserve Dean. He doesn't even deserve to love him.

Dean is the one thing he's wanted the most since he first stepped foot out of Heaven and ventured into the pits of Hell to grab the man with scorching hands and raise him back up to righteousness, but he is also the one thing that Castiel knows he cannot have anymore. He must redeem himself first. But how, now that he has committed the worst crime?

Of course he already knows. It's what he plans to do—find a way to destroy the tablet for good. Then no one can have it. Castiel knows the price on this thing's head. Crowley wants it so he can shut the angels back up in Heaven. Naomi wants it so no one else can get it. Dean, specifically. That's why he can't let this thing stay near Dean. If it were only demons, that would be no problem. He knows the Winchesters can handle demons. Angels, too. But Naomi is no angel, and Castiel will die before he allows that—_whatever on this godforsaken plane of existence she is_—anywhere near Dean.

Then again, he would probably just be brought back again.

Either way. Wherever the tablet goes, the utmost danger will follow. Castiel can fight it off until he finds a way to destroy the tablet.

He wishes he didn't have to, though. Castiel feels the full force of the emotion he was, at some point, entirely unable to feel, and he leans his head against the window and silently cries. He wishes he could explain everything to Dean. He wishes he could pop himself inside the Impala for a minute just to tell him _why_. He wishes Naomi hadn't wanted him to kill Dean. He wishes Naomi had never even pulled him out of Purgatory.

He wishes he could just _do his time_ properly. But simultaneously and most of all, he wishes he had never been arrogant and done all those things in the first place.

Everything suddenly terrifies him. Not only the near-impossible task of completely destroying the angel tablet, but also the prospect of failing and never being able to be worthy of Dean again. Everything just hurts to the point where Castiel, who has lived since before the earth existed and has seen everything, is not sure how it's possible to hurt this much.

"Excuse me, sir? Is everything alright?"

He doesn't even turn around to look—he knows exactly without having to see it: A woman pushing a cart of food has come around and seen him crying.

"Yes, I'm fine," he lies, still without turning around, and the tears aren't stopping just for him to answer the woman. It occurs to him that it's Dean's fault he doesn't feel strange about lying anymore. "I don't want any food."

The woman mutters "Okay" awkwardly and walks off, and Castiel appreciates being left alone. He'd rather be completely and utterly alone than be surrounded by people who aren't Dean.

* * *

Nearly all the way back to the HQ of the Men of Letters, Dean parks the Impala outside a gas station. He should really be trying to get some sleep, as he's actually rather tired, but he doesn't feel like sleeping. So he needs some caffeine and snacks from the gas station.

The whole drive, he's been thinking about Cas. Wondering what's going on. Wishing desperately for answers. Angrily and hopelessly demanding that Cas _get his feathery ass back there and explain everything to him_. And praying a bit without meaning to.

Part of him wants to punch that angel in the face until he gets a proper explanation (if that were even possible at the moment), and part of him has consistently been telling the rest of him that he shouldn't be worrying, that Cas must have a really good reason for all of this. He still wants to believe that and _trust_ him in spite of everything that's happened.

_I dunno man—if he's so sketchy, then why were you praying to him?_ Sam's question that had gone unanswered earlier rings out in his head as he picks up sodas and chips to bring to the counter. Except there actually had been an answer—only that it was in the form of a dirty look that silently said, _You already know the answer to that. Shut up._

The clerk's announcement of the price of the food and gas is vague in his ears, as though he's hearing him through a very long tunnel, so he just pulls out one of his credit cards and runs it through the machine, then confirms the purchase without even looking at the price. He never needs to, anyway.

"What the hell is wrong with me, man," he mutters as he walks out of the gas station and heads to the pump, unsure of whether he's saying that to himself or to Cas. "This should have stopped when you turned all _God_ and proved that you were lying to me for so long—I should have just stopped trusting you and praying to you and—"

Dean stops himself when he realizes he might be getting a little loud and that he doesn't want to wake Sam up or get the attention of anyone who might be nearby. He also just doesn't want to say it. Refraining from hitting the gas pump in a fit of frustration, he pushes everything down and holds it in the pit of his stomach and ignores the pain. He sucks in a breath of air and holds that in, too, until he's got the tube in the car and can lean against it for support.

"Listen, you bastard," he starts to say quietly, looking down at the Impala. "I know you can fucking hear me. I've been getting the feeling lately that you never _don't_ hear me, it's just that a lot of the time you don't answer—and I'm pretty sure you're not gonna answer me. But just—I just want you to know, Cas. Whatever shit you're pulling, I'm gonna assume that you've got reasons. And I'm gonna hope to God that they're good ones. I really shouldn't trust you—my blood's on your hands now, for fuck's sake—but yeah, I get you were being controlled. You never explained that to me as much as you should have, though. I don't know if I'm ever going to see you again, but I want you to know that if and when I do, I will hold you down and trap you in holy fire until you tell me everything, you hear?"

The tube has been completely emptied now, and Dean would be proud of his timing if it was any other situation. As he sticks the tube back into the pump and shuts the little door for gas on the car, he glances upwards for a moment and adds one more thing: "At least you're _you_ again."

Turning around quickly to make sure Sam's still asleep and heard none of that (which he appears to be), Dean gets in the Impala and puts the food in the back seat—and he regains his usual composure and resolves to keep it that way. Once they're back at the headquarters, he wakes up Sam so they can go inside, and falls asleep within the minute.

It's not the first time that he actually _hopes_ to wake up with an angel watching him from the foot of the bed.

* * *

**All I can really say is that I hope for feedback, as I'd really like to know what you thought/if you cried/if you want me to write more.**


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